


Corridor of Power

by Unsentimentalf



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:25:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4290750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Our offices are linked by a corridor," - David Cameron 12 May 2010</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Written in 2010, part of my 2015 archiving of old fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corridor of Power

“Dave will be here in the next couple of minutes.”

The young lady- Kate? Yes, Kate- smiled cheerfully at Nick Clegg and walked away, heels clicking on the wooden floor.

For a moment he blanked. “Dave?” He’d met far too many people in the last week, done it on far too little sleep. Years since he’d forgotten a name that he ought to know. Standing outside the negotiating room he struggled through the temporary confusion. Dave was..

Walking down the corridor towards him, hand outstretched. “Nick. Good to see you again.” The man looked like he meant it.

“We’re nearly there, I’m sure of it.” David Cameron was positive this evening. A few hours ago he’d looked as tired as Nick felt, but with the collapse of the Labour talks he knew damn well he was the only game in town for Nick’s embattled and increasingly desperate party.

Nick and his negotiating team had half expected the Tories to start playing hard to get. Not for them to fall over themselves to chuck out their own hardline policies. Cameron’s doing, they had decided. Dave’s. Playing at God knows what. Maybe he just liked their manifesto.

“Could we possibly have a minute in private before we go inside?” Of course they could, although Nick wasn’t entirely happy about the idea. He needed his party onside; he couldn’t seem to be negotiating separately. Not a good image at all. It was all right for Cameron; he seemed to be accountable to no-one.

Still, he nodded, told his aides that he’d be in shortly. David dismissed his with equal politeness, drifted a little way down the now empty corridor.

“George.” he started abruptly. “ He’s been working his arse off on our budget plans for months. It’s a matter of decency, Nick, not just politics. I can’t take that away.”

George Osborne, expecting to become Chancellor of the Exchequer. The second most important job in UK politics. Nick nodded, unsurprised. Dreams of holding up that battered briefcase to the cameras would have to be abandoned.

“So?” he asked, carefully. His party needed something. Hell, he needed something. His people were split enough over this deal. He knew damn well it could be the end of his career. He was doing this for the country, but still, risks should carry reward. He didn’t want Home, that graveyard of careers, but he’d take Foreign like a shot.

“I’d like you to be my Deputy PM”

Nick was aware of the phrasing first. Not “will you accept”? Not “I can offer you”. I’d like. He must be tired, to come close to falling for rhetorical gestures. Still, it was nicely said.

Deputy Prime Minister could mean anything at all. It frequently meant nothing at all. A seat in the Cabinet, but no responsibilities. Half the PMs didn’t even have one most of the time. It would sound good for the papers, Nick thought, but election time was over. He didn’t reply.

“It won’t be empty.” David reached out a hand to his sleeve, dropped it before touching him. “I want you to take political reform forward, for a start. You’ll have ministerial level control of that. That must make sense. And you’ll pick the Lib Dem cabinet ministers, when we’ve agreed which posts those should be.”

He smiled, a little more tentatively this time. “You’ll be my deputy completely. PMQs, the lot. Oh, and Lord President of the Council, so that gives you the Privy Council.”

“And”, more confident now. “Offices in the Cabinet Office. There’s a corridor to No 10. That’s how close we’ll be.”

A corridor to no 10. Nick couldn’t help a smile. That was politics for you. Deputy PM was a pretty good title, for the leader of a minority party. Miriam would be amused, and pleased. And in charge of electoral reform- that might be the final thing to buy his party over.

He nodded. “Subject to everything else being sorted out, I’d be honoured.” Not really the terms with which one should conclude a negotiation, but sometimes, he thought ruefully, Cameron’s style rubbed off on him.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

It was one of the peculiarities of being a politician, Nick thought, that one so often spent the first day in a new job drinking coffee and reading the newspapers.

His office was quite impressive; the oak and green leather that MPs got so used to, but large and with huge windows. An annex contained his staff, a mix of new and old. Names and faces safely consigned to his memory, he had cracked a couple of jokes with them, asked a few questions, arranged a couple of meeting with his Lib Dem Cabinet colleagues for later in the day. Now he was waiting for the call to the first full Cabinet meeting, today’s papers spread out on his huge leather-topped desk.

The press conference couldn’t have gone better. The two of them had been on fire; all relief and excitement. He’d got the damn deal past his MPs’, past his executive- it was done, sealed. He was deputy PM, actually, right now. It said so, on the front page of the British media this morning. Some poking fun at their double act; he didn’t mind that. That wouldn’t lose any votes. This bizarre, insane election was finally over and this was his office.

He and Miriam had even got round to looking up the salary last night on Wikipedia. And then she’d kissed him and he’d got a little less sleep than he’d been planning. Still, he felt great.

A knock on the annex door.

“Come in.”

Another of the young civil servants- not his staff this time. He didn’t know this one.

“If you’re ready, Sir, the cabinet will be meeting shortly.”

He’d come in via the Cabinet Office Whitehall entrance. This was the first time that he’d walked down the promised corridor. It was like most of the other corridors in this complex of 300 year old buildings; big, plush carpet, heavy wallpaper, high windows that showed only sky. Green. Not red or blue, or yellow. Which reminded him; he must get Miriam to go through his ties and consign anything vaguely blue-ish to the local Oxfam shop. That wouldn’t be a good slip-up to make.

One of Nick’s people was by his side, chatting. He resisted the temptation to reach out to the walls, trail his fingers over the embossed paper. His corridor to number 10. It was busy with civil servants passing back and forth. Barely more than two dozen paces, and they were in the No 10 offices, making their way through the huge complex towards the Cabinet Room. Thank goodness for aides; he knew he was lost already.

But there was David. Standing outside, welcoming his people- nice touch that. Nick could see Vince at the door, prickly and uncomfortable, and Cameron smoothing over the conversation until even Vince was soothed. Good politicians smiled with their eyes and David did that. But it was more than that today; Nick could feel the sparks fly off the man. Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and Cameron loved everyone who was a part of that today, even grumpy Liberals.

So when David turned to greet him Nick wasn’t entirely surprised that the handshake turned into an arm around his shoulder.

“Nick! Good to see you!” Dave’s eyes said “Isn’t this fun!” and Nick couldn’t resist the answering grin. And then they walked together into the crowded Cabinet room, and spent ten minutes smiling dutifully for the cameras before George told them what a mess the country was in and they all voted to cut their own ministerial salaries by 5% in an excess of frugality.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

It was past 9pm. Nick turned over the last couple of pages of the summary for Cabinet and sighed. That was that then. Disappointing, but the facts seemed quite clear.

He picked it up to put in his ministerial box, then hesitated. Better to get it over to No 10 straight away. David would need to have read it by the meeting tomorrow.

His annex was empty; he’d chased Charles home a little earlier, realising that the man was only hanging around because Nick was still in the office. He was just finishing the report; he didn’t need any more help that day.

He’d take it across himself. There was always someone in the No 10 offices to give it to. Walking down the empty corridor he realised that this was the first time that he’d ever come that way on his own. His corridor, his price, as he thought of it still, and he was alone in it.

It seemed long when it was empty. He could see how the architecture changed as he left the Cabinet buildings, entered no 10. At least he knew the way round now; he headed towards Cameron’s offices. Glanced upwards as he went past a set of stairs. The Prime Minister and his family would be in their residence, three floors up, eating dinner, putting the kids to bed. One of the strangest residences in the country.

Cameron’s aide, Stephen, was working late as well, in the room adjacent to the PM’s office. Nick greeted him, then glanced at the light coming from under the thick oak door.

“The Prime Minister is still in his office. Do you want me to see if he’s available?”

There was no real need to interrupt David. The report would wait till tomorrow. Still; this was where his corridor led. Access, the man had said. “I’ll put my head round the door.”

The “Come in” was in those plush Etonian tones, impossible to read. But when Dave saw him the Prime Minister stood up, gestured enthusiastically.

“Come in, Nick, please. Is this on Warberg? Is it a goer?”

“Only if you can get another eighty million from George, I’m afraid. I’ve got the summary here but that’s the bottom line.”

Cameron winced. “I doubt that George will play ball on that one. Pity. Well, that’s that. I was about to have a coffee- can I get you one?”

Nick was about to claim, truthfully, that he was heading home, but he’d missed the childrens’ bedtimes already and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the PM to himself. “That would be great, thanks.”

He’d got a list in his head for occasions like these. There were always issues; Vince and George, the nuclear problem, the slow progression towards reform, awkward backbenchers. But tonight they drank the coffee that Stephen brought them and the conversation got onto other things. The vagaries of their small children, mainly, and then a tiny mental leap to the Labour leadership election now coming slowly to its inevitable conclusion.

“Next time”, Nick commented cheerfully, “Our choice will be between David and David. That will confuse the Executive.”

Cameron was silent for a moment. “I suppose so.” His voice had dropped, was dull. Nick put down his coffee mug, unsure of what to say. Politicians sometimes didn’t like the reminder that all this was always temporary, that five years was all they had earned. He hadn’t thought Dave was like that, but maybe it had just been a long day. He stood up,

“Time I was heading home. See you at the meeting tomorrow.”

David looked up, managed a smile that didn’t go anywhere near his eyes. “Yes, of course. Goodnight.”

The car would be waiting in Whitehall. Nick walked briskly back to his office without seeing the corridor around him at all.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

 

“This wasn’t the deal.” Nick was carefully not shouting, knowing that half a dozen people were on the other side of the door. Thank God for eighteenth century interior design. Last thing he wanted was this all over the papers tomorrow.

“It’s your man who has resigned, Nick. Your man who is apparently writing an article for the damn Guardian about all this. Leaving me with the mess to clear up and that’s what I’m doing!” David was a little louder.

“It’s a Lib Dem cabinet post. That was agreed. You can’t do this, David.” Nick’s hands were flat on the table as he faced the prime minister. “My people will not stand for dilution in Cabinet.”

“So I’ll promote someone from below and you can have that post. I am not lumbering George with another Cable, Nick. It’s not fair to him.”

Nick sighed, sat back down, gestured Cameron to a seat. God know why they were having this argument in his office. Protocol dictated that if the PM wanted to talk to you, he sent a polite request and you went to No 10. The Prime Minister did not storm the wrong way down the corridor into Whitehall late on a Tuesday autumn evening with a resignation letter from his Business Secretary in his hand. A copy of that letter had already been sitting on Nick’s desk, delivered by the man himself an hour earlier.

“Come on, Dave. We knew things like this would happen.” He tried a smile. “First resignation in six months isn’t bad, now, is it?”

“No, I suppose not. Still, I’ve got to give George someone he can work with, this time.”

Cameron had always been so protective of Osborne. Nick felt a stab of annoyance. The man ought to be able to look after himself. If he couldn’t handle the Chancellorship, someone else should do it.

“George needs to be able to work with a liberal, Dave. If you can do it, why can’t he? Lord knows I must be more trouble than Vince, surely.”

A flash of a grin cleared Cameron’s frown. “You’re more trouble than anyone.”

That was better. Time to give a little.

“It doesn’t have to be Business, Dave, if Osborne’s set against it. But we need something equivalent. I’ve got a party to keep happy here.”

David nodded. “If we’re going to reshuffle we’d better get back to Downing Street.”

He stood up, crossed to the door, stood with his hand on the doorknob.

“You know, every so often I look round at the Cabinet and I thank the Lord for not giving me another dozen seats last May. I could be struggling on Major’s majority, arguing with rebels, losing votes, pandering to the crazies. Your lot aren’t always easy, but I like this. You and I-it works.”

Yes. It really did. A little clump of aides ahead of them, a couple behind, Nick walked beside Dave down the green corridor direct to no 10. Vince’s letter and its detailed criticisms of the coalition government lay on the desk behind him, forgotten.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Nick looked back at the paper again. Opinion polls had got more complex in the new AV system, but this was the third in a row which said pretty much the same thing.

It didn’t look good. Blame the cuts, too deep, too painful, even though they’d all been necessary. Blame the lingering recession, the second house price collapse. A full quarter of party members had resigned, mostly gone to Labour and countless voters with them. The coalition had worked, pretty much but it sometimes seemed that no-one gave him any credit for it.

Three months till the new, fixed election day and even with AV he was looking at under seventy seats. Enough that that parliament would be hung, enough to form a coalition government with either of the others.

The small group of MPs who came to see him in the Lib Dem headquarters were urging, not for the first time, that he open talks with the Labour party. Not even talks, just talks about talks. Just to make it clear that next time, he could be Deputy to David Milliband, not David Cameron.

“We need to distinguish ourselves from the Tories. Clear blue water. There’s a mood in the country for a proper progressive alliance, this time. But we have to move to the left.”

Move to the left, they said. Talk to Mandelson. Set out a progressive manifesto, clearly different from the Conservatives. Find some policies of theirs to condemn outright. State, absolutely firmly, that we are not in any way committed to a further coalition with the Tories. If we can, hint firmly that we’d much rather have one with Labour. And then after a pause, what they’d really come to say.

“Mandelson suggests that if we could find some reason to break the current coalition, that might be best. Now, before electioneering starts.”

Nick nodded, and asked questions, and thanked people for their contributions, and assured everyone that he’d talk to them about this again tomorrow. Then he asked his government driver to take him to his office in Whitehall.

He pushed a few pieces of paper around his desk for half an hour and then he picked up the phone.

Yes, the PM could make a few minutes to see him if the matter was urgent. Yes, it was. In fifteen minutes then. He paced his office for five, then walked out. Waved his people back to their seats. They didn’t quite insist on accompanying him to the Gents but he sometimes thought that they’d like to.

Negotiate with Mandelson. Cosy up to Adonis. Start briefing, quietly, against Dave. Against his Cabinet colleagues. He was up for PM questions next week- was he meant to condemn his own government as he represented them?

The sun was low, rays sparkling through the high windows, lighting up the green walls, as he walked slowly down his corridor. People were overtaking him, voices intent on work topics. He knew most of them, of course; could tell you who they worked for, what they worked on, how long they’d been there, whether they were rated good at their jobs or a waste of space. He could probably tell you what their partners’ names were, whether they had children, where they’d flown on holiday to last year. He was part of this, now.

Nick arrived at the PM’s office precisely 30 seconds before the time he had been given. Cheryl shook his hand, told him how nice it was to see him (it had been a full 2 days since their last meeting) and asked him to go straight in. He swung the door firmly shut behind him.

“Nick! God, man, you look terrible.” Cameron was out from behind his desk, an arm under his shoulder. “ Sit down. Do you need anything- a drink?”

Now he was there, his mouth was dry. “Water, thank you.”

Dave pressed the glass into his hand, waited while he sipped at it gratefully.

“Is everything all right?”

Studied words went out of his head. He looked up at the man standing in front of him.

“They want..my party.” How could he say this, and yet his MPs though it the most natural thing in the world? He swallowed. “I am being advised to find some pretext on which to pull the Liberal Democrats out of your government before next month, so that we can campaign on the basis that we are likely to form a coalition with the Labour party.”

He half expected Cameron to shrug this off as politics. Just part of the game. But Dave was staring down at him, white faced.

“You wouldn’t do that?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Nick sighed. “I shouldn’t be. My MPs would be horrified, if they knew that I’d told you.”

Cameron sat down on the edge of his desk. “Yes. Thank you. God, politics is a dirty game sometimes.”

“Too dirty for me.” Nick took a deep breath. “I don’t want their bloody progressive alliance, Dave. I don’t want to sweettalk Miliband into a couple of cabinet posts and have to work with the likes of Straw and Mandy and bloody Unison.”

David was watching him carefully. “What options do you have?”

Nick had a muddle of proposals about renegotiating coalitions and aligning manifestos but he looked into Cameron’s sharp blue eyes and said something else completely.

“If you go into Opposition, Dave, I’m going there with you.”

He didn’t know what would happen now. He didn’t know whether he’d just betrayed a lifetime in politics, or completed it. But, looking at the expression on his Prime Minister’s face, he knew that some coalitions were never for breaking.


End file.
